September 19, 2011--Midcoast: Snickerdoodles

“ I haven’t made these in a long time.” Rona was rummaging around in the drawer where she keeps her baking pans.

“What’s that?”

“Madeleines.”

“Oh, I love those. There’s a recipe that I clipped from the Dining & Wine section of the New York Times for bluefish grilled with caponata that I’ve been eager to try and I think madeleines for dessert would be perfect.”

“That sounds interesting,”

“I saw some nice looking bluefish in the fish store in town and grilling it with caponata, in parchment, sounds delicious. I need, let me see,” I looked at the recipe, “some fennel root, a red onion, a red pepper, and some anchovy paste. I already have a tube of tomato paste, garlic, and we’re growing our own Italian parsley. But I have to get some pitted black olives and of course eggplant. What about you? Is there anything you need?”

“I could use some vanilla extract. Other than that, I’m fine. But what about capers? I’m sure you need some for the caponata. Do we have any?”

“For certain. Some of those wonderful Spanish ones. Let’s make a list and head out. We have to get a few things up in Rockland,” a town about 25 miles northeast of us, “and on the way back we can pick up what we need.”

“And also,” Rona said with a coy smile, “maybe, if we time it right, we can stop at the Keag store in South Thomaston and . . .”

I sensed what she was about to suggest, “And,” I said, she was already nodding, “share a lobster roll. They make the best ones as far as I’m concerned.”

“Right,” Rona said, “the lobsters come right out of the harbor, they cook them perfectly, and make the dressing with just the right amount of mayonnaise.”

“And I love the roll they serve it on. They don’t use frankfurter rolls like everyone else but rather seeded buns which . . .”

“. . . they toast just right.”

“Indeed!” I was ready to dig into one already even though it was barely 10:30.

We got our Rockland chores done, keeping an eye on the time so that we would get to the Keag store at about 1:30. Rona suggested we kill a little time at Home Depot. She’s looking for some gray Cabot stain for our decks. No luck there so we headed out toward Keag along a road that skirted the river—a vast plain of wetlands that reminded us of West Africa.

“Every time we take this route,” Rona said half-seriously, “I keep an eye out for big game.”

I, on the other hand, kept my eyes on the road—I had lobster rolls on my mind.

It’s post-season and so when we arrived we were the only ones in the store. We ordered a large lobster roll to share with sides of their scrumptious homemade coleslaw and slide into a sun-drenched table by the window to wait for it to be ready.

Looking around at the cozy surroundings, I said, “If only they had a wood stove I’d stay all winter. Can you imagine how blissful it would be to sit here all day with coffee and the newspaper and watch the tide swing through where the river narrows? That’s why they situated a mill here in the middle of the 19th century—when the store first opened—since it could operate with the tide running in and then out. It must have been quite a reality.”

“Now everything’s being manufactured in China and Sri Lanka.” Wistfully I nodded.

“Speaking of newspapers, let’s see what’s in the local paper. I saw a copy up by the counter. I like the Herald Gazette. Comes out, I think, every Wednesday. I remember how it’s the only paper I know that tells you right there in the masthead how many pages it includes.” And sure enough, just as in the past it said there were 44 in this week’s edition.

I thumbed through the first section with its stories about a 1.3 magnitude earthquake centered not far away in Lincolnville, strong enough only to get people talking about it; and how firefighters responded to a call from Jackson Salvage where, fortunately, no structures were damaged, just some old auto parts; while Rona picked up the B Section, Community, with stories about the towns in the area (this week, how they remembered the 10th anniversary of 9/11); social events (including the public steak supper scheduled for Saturday at the Mt. Olive Lodge in Washington); and news of local high school sports (how the Trojans of Mount Desert Island ran past the Camden Hills’ Windjammers, 35-7).

“And look,” Rona said, while still waiting for our lobster roll, “just like your New York Times, they have recipes.”

“What?” I was engrossed in a story about a South Thomaston fisherman who was sentenced to 14 days in jail after being convicted of failing to file tax returns for the past six years and was half-paying attention to Rona.
“Look at these recipes.” She handed her section over to me. “Check the ‘Baking with Betty’ column. It’s so charming.”

And indeed it was. There was a recipe for Mixed Vegetables with Instant Cream Sauce and Magic Baked Pork Chops, with the magic supplied by a can of Golden (or Campbell’s) Cream of Mushroom Soup. “Just like my mother used to make,” I said out loud to myself.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, just how my mother used cream of mushroom soup for all sorts of things. Best was her Chicken à la King. I loved that.” I felt myself getting teary-eyed but was rescued from slipping into sadness about the passage of time by the arrival of our lobster roll.

And what a roll it was! We hadn’t been to the Keag since June but, as then and for years past, it was and is still perfect. I know all the guidebooks send Maine visitors to Reds just at the end of the bridge in Wiscasset, but for my money (and at neither place is it cheap) I’ll take Keag’s version. Washed down with iced tea or a cold beer, well that’s as close to heaven as I ever expect to get.

When we mopped up the last morsel of the lobster mix and the coleslaw we sat back to finish leafing through the Gazette. I was deeply lost in Betty Heald’s cooking column.

“Look at this,” I said, “Did you ever hear of Snickerdoodles?”

“Snicker-what’s?"

“You heard me. They’re some kind of cookie.” Rona was looking at me skeptically. “You make a basic cookie dough, let it sit in the frig for about an hour, and then—let’s see—you shape it into balls, roll them in a sugar and cinnamon mix, and then bake them for, Betty says, 8 to 10 minutes.”

“Let me look at that.” Rona said, reaching across the table to retrieve the Community section. Still suspecting me, I was certain, of making this up. I heard her mutter, “Snickerdoodles.” And then, “Oh my God, he’s right,” meaning me. “I never heard of these.” I just smiled my most contented smile. The tide outside was swinging out and beginning to rush through the channel.

“They don’t sound half bad to me,” I said, “They could give your madeleines a run for the money.” Before she could say anything, I quickly added, “Of course I’m just kidding. Nothing compares to your madeleines.”

We reluctantly pulled ourselves up out of our chairs and headed back to Damariscotta to complete our chores and shopping for dinner. When we finally got to the house Rona went right to the kitchen and began to putter around. I took advantage of that and let myself fall into a deep nap. When I awoke it was nearly time for some serious cooking and baking.

“Let me do the baking first,” Rona said. “This will allow things to cool and be ready for dessert. You’re still making the bluefish with caponata? I hope so.”

“Sure am. Those New York Times recipes have been unbeatable this summer.”

“Why don’t you take a little walk and get out of my way.”

“Good idea,” I said. And so I wandered out toward the lighthouse to fully wake up and leave Rona alone with her madeleine-making. I knew that by the time I returned the house would be full of the aroma that only vanilla extract can impart.

I was out for about half an hour and found the oven still in use. “When you’re done,” I said, “let me know since I’m grilling the bluefish in the oven. I see you have it set at 400 degrees. That’s perfect for me. You can just leave it there. It looks from the timer that you need another few minutes. In the meantime I’ll do some sous-chefing. I need to dice the eggplant, onion, fennel, and red pepper. I can do that without getting in your way.”

“Sounds good. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“That would be great. The recipe calls not for paper parchment but to seal the fish with the caponata on top in aluminum foil. Greased foil. So you can prepare to sheets and put the fish on them, skin side down.”

While I sliced and diced Rona did just that and in a few minutes the timer went off.

“Does that ever smell amazing,” I said, not looking up from the cutting board. “I can’t wait for dessert.”

“And I can’t wait for the fish. In the meantime, I’ll bring up Pandora Radio on the computer. I’ve been liking their string quartet mix.” And with that, blending with the baking smell, Debussy’s rapturous quartet filled the room. For the second time in a day, I was flooded with tears, this time of happiness.

The fish was as amazing as we had hoped. Nothing like fresh fish caught in our bay and vegetables direct from local farms.

And then I was ready for Rona’s madeleines. When earlier I had run out to the shed—I remembered I forgot to turn out the lights before driving to Rockland—Rona had emptied the oven and I couldn’t wait to see how they turned out.

“Bring them on,” I said. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

She took the wax paper off the cookie platter and brought it to the table with a touch of ceremony. “Voilà,” she said. An appropriate choice of words, I thought, for something French.

“But what’s that?” I was confused. “These don’t look like madeleines. They look like . . .”

“Snickerdoodles!” we said simultaneously.

“You are too much,” I said, reaching out to hug her.

“Seemed appropriate,” she said.

“I agree. Let me try them.” I bit into one that was still warm. “My, they are good,” I said with a mouth full of snickerdoodle. “Not quite as good as your you-know-what’s,” I winkled, “But good nonetheless.”

“You know, these would be great for dunking. Let me make some tea.”

And while she did, I looked again at “Baking with Betty.”

“These are so good I’m now wondering about her baked pork chops.”

From the stove where the water was heating, Rona said, “Yeah, the ones with the magic sauce.”

“Right. The ones you make with the cream of . . .”